


We're All a Little Crazy

by saltyynoodles



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cassian Andor-centric, Character Study, F/M, Minor Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso, Only Cassian survives, Post-Battle of Scarif, Slight references to PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyynoodles/pseuds/saltyynoodles
Summary: The world seems to hate Cassian, seeing as he just can't seem to die.Or, Cassian contemplates the Alliance.





	We're All a Little Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! It seems I've fallen into the pit of Rebelcaptain after rewatching Rogue One, so what better way to get back into writing after brief block (okay, like five months). Note I wrote this in around one sitting and I'm not even quite sure what I intended to convey?? Small steps are good enough to get back into writing though - all feedback is appreciated :)  
> Cassian (and Diego Luna) deserved more screen time :,) (also Alan Tudyk, man)
> 
> >> don't own Star Wars or any of it ://

In the Alliance, nothing is secured or guaranteed. Cassian’s learned this the hard way.

Sometimes Cassian questions the choices he’s made so far to lead to this point. He wouldn’t take it back— any of it— but as he stands stiffly, frostbite and maybe a little insanity setting into his bones from the icy winds of Hoth, there’s nothing really _to_ do but think. Insanity though, perhaps dementia, wouldn’t really surprise him— the planet is far too much like his birthplace to allow for comfort, as if the subzero temperatures weren’t enough, they aggravated his hastily healed wounds as well.

The term “healed” too, is subjective. There are still aches that even the bacta can’t reach. Cassian has taught himself over the years to not look back— he never used to have time to reflect or look back. Even if he didn’t spend every night sleeping under the cover of gunfire, there had always been things to do, things to _shoot_ . But now he turns around and all he sees are sympathetic faces (he feels _alone_ ), people gently patting him on the shoulder and telling him he’s done well, he’s done his part and that he should look into _expanding his skill set_. Cassian knows what that means.

His place in the Alliance was never guaranteed either. (He is no dog to be put down by anyone, the Alliance or otherwise.)

He’s one of the Alliance’s damn best. He _knows_ what _that_ means. How many times has he raised his arms in the name of the rebellion in these twenty-some years? Unwaveringly, unblinking— how many people has he trampled over in the belief that he was a part of something greater?

There are new grey hairs scattered over his unruly head of hair— they say it's from the stress, his body’s response to being so _unbearably_ broken in so many places, all over— _it was a miracle he survived_ (he shouldn’t have.). Cassian looks to his hands raw and scarred from the bacta trying to wash him clean of things he hasn’t been able to wash away for years. But it’s not like he’s broken beyond help. ( _He can still fight_.)

He doesn’t _blame_ the Alliance per say— he could never. To forsake the rebellion would be for Cassian Andor to tear out his lungs and try running. He is nothing without them— merely a broken, broken man with a left leg that no longer works quite as well as it should for a man of his age, and a mind that has only grown more efficient in cutting out the unnecessary parts. There were some nights Cassian dryly thought to himself that K-2SO could’ve passed more easily as a human than him.

_I’ve been in this fight since I was six years old._

Nothing is guaranteed in the Alliance— in the tougher months, sometimes years, steady food supplies weren’t even an assured commodity (hunger had never been the only thing that kept him up at night.). The only thing Cassian knows he has is his mind. It’s his cage, his burden— but also his most valued key. He didn’t become a captain in the Intelligence division by luck, or hope, or any bullshit.

 _Rebellions are built on hope_.

His lip curls slightly at the thought of those sour words. He’s a broken man and yet it was _him_ who survived. People called it luck, even the force. But Cassian knows that if it had been the force choosing, it would not have been him who had made it off of Scarif. Because in the Alliance, nothing is guaranteed. It wasn’t the woman who had rallied them all to fight— the one who Cassian had truly raised his glass for— who had lived, instead it was him, a broken, broken man who had not even seen a mission briefing since. Even the Scarif mission debrief was unavailable to him and he’d _been_ there. Perhaps, Cassian considers, it’s because of that.

Even now, most of his acquaintances tiptoe around him. Many of the Alliance’s officers still hold resentment towards how ludicrously suicidal the Rogue One mission had been. Cassian can’t help but hoarsely laugh at the thought of how many rebels must think it would’ve been better off with him dying on Scarif, and the fact that he _wholeheartedly agrees_ . Only Draven willingly visits him (alongside the medical personnel that come to demand he take his medicine because _there are appearances to be kept and it doesn’t look good when people die_ ) and even then it’s a robotic affair.

As his commanding officer, Cassian would almost say Draven once represented his closest semblance to a father figure. But now there are hundreds of dead men whispering and grasping at Cassian in the air in between them and they struggle to mutter past a few gruff greetings. Even if they aren’t blood-related, onlookers would observe they’re far more similar than they’d like to admit. Every time Cassian thinks to ask about something, anything— a mission, Mon Mothma’s health, the weather— he comes up silent and they simply stare at each other (the answers being: not yet, fine, cold per usual). The Alliance has little time for games or time in general, but they’ve gotten far too good at this waiting game to stop now.

Cassian looks over the open railing, watching as the ice swirls through the air in violent patterns. The hangars are shut, protecting the Alliance’s precious resources from the environment. The aircraft are everything— without them, the Alliance is as good as dead, without a way of retreat or counter. Thinking of that, it still makes Cassian’s gut burn with the thought of the Battle of Yavin. Of course he hadn’t been privy to the files, but he, contradictory to what the council seemed to think, isn’t deaf and incapacitated.

When he hears of the daring young pilot and R2-D2 he can’t help but think of K-2SO. For him at least, Cassian would’ve liked to have been cleared so to shoot down some TIE fighters.

Cassian didn’t think he’d miss K-2SO as much as he does. After all, the sarcastic hunk of ex-Empire metal had been full of mouth and far too inclined to shoot-than-ask-questions (although so was Cassian), but he does. On more than one occasion did the huge droid dig him out of rubble or a precarious situation, muttering in his surprisingly soothing voice about how Cassian should learn to be a bit more self-preserving (so much for that.).

Running his gloved hands through his dry hair, Cassian sighs— it seems he was surrounded by acquaintances (friends) who had talked too much until they couldn’t talk anymore. _Self-preservation—_ he never quite took himself as one of _those_ rebels: the old, haggard ones that stood in the back of the council meetings, not wanting attention, simply wanting the war to be _over_. But it almost seems to be becoming a scarily possible reality for him— grey hairs and all, he’s been tragically lucky over the years.

A wave a nausea washes over Cassian and he tries holding back the sudden urge to vomit. His grip tightens on the rail and he tries desperately not to throw up the flavorless nutrition supplements he’s given. His hand trembles towards his throat, subconsciously feeling a sense of _wrong_ . Because the air in his lungs, the food in his stomach— this bitter, cold feeling should not be his. _Numb, numb, numb_ — I should be _dead_.

He vomits. He manages to make it over the edge, and he weakly leans against the railing, catching his breath. All he can smell now is sour stomach against the stark cold.

Cassian closes his eyes and steels himself quietly. Steadies his breathing. He doesn’t have _time_ to mess around like this— he needs to get cleared for missions. To be able to do _something_ — for them, if not him. Because if not anything else, Cassian Andor is a good little soldier ready to toss his life away. Because in the Alliance, nothing is guaranteed— not the clothes on his back or his creaky cot. But Cassian’s okay with that.

_He’s tired of running away._

* * *

 

Cassian’s head is in the clouds. He’s burning, crumbling away to ashes— like a human version of Jedha, pieces of him falling away into nothingness. But there’s a new warmth— not unbearably scorching like the heat at his back, but a differ, kinder warmth. It reminds him of home, of the toasty fires in Fest and his mother’s eyes staring at him as she murmured softly, “ _Cassie, Cassie_ ”. He looks down at it's not his mother, but Jyn, wrapped in his arms as the world burns. It’s awkward and ungraceful and Cassian can’t recall the last time he let someone touch him in this way after his mother (the only things he held after was death).

The world turns white.

“Do you understand, Captain Andor?” Mon Mothma asks him, something akin to concern in her sharp eyes.

Cassian blinks twice, once to bring him back, the second to wipe away the afterimage of Scarif (who is he kidding— those images are engraved on his eyelids.).

Eyes are so troublesome— they always gave him away. Cassian resists the urge to avert his gaze and instead gives a uniform nod. He can’t go wrong with those.

To the side, Draven dips his head and hands him his blaster, the leather a comfortable fit. For a moment, their two scarred hands meet and Cassian feels this tired, old commander and maybe he’s not the only one that’s secretly a little broken.

But there’s a strange look in everyone’s eyes and Cassian distantly recalls hearing about the successes of the young pilot, Luke, and feels a shiver up his spine as if it’s not Draven’s hand on his shoulder. And, well, if he gives a wry smile to himself at the thought of hearing a feminine voice murmuring “it’s called _hope_ , captain”, no one will blame him.

After all, they’re all a little crazy on the inside (especially to be challenging the empire.).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr with the same username as Ao3 :)


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